Splinters
by evitamockingbird
Summary: Mr. Carson injures himself and Mrs. Hughes takes care of him. Pure fluff.


**I have no idea where this came from.**

It was late, quite late, and the family and the rest of the staff had all gone to bed. Mrs. Hughes didn't think Mr. Carson had gone up yet, but perhaps she'd missed him. She checked the back door and it was open. If Mr. Carson hadn't locked up yet, then he hadn't gone to bed, but she couldn't figure out what he might be up to if everyone else was asleep. She shrugged and went back to her sitting room. She wasn't sleepy, in spite of the late hour, so she decided to keep working. Mrs. Hughes was settling back into her chair when she heard the back door open and close slowly. The footfalls were familiar, but something wasn't quite right. She went into the corridor to investigate.

What she found was Mr. Carson in white tie and tails, or what had at one time been white tie and tails. On second glance she could see that his tailcoat hung over his arm and the shirt, waistcoat, and tie that ought to have been white were wet and dirty.

"What on earth?" she exclaimed.

Mr. Carson was chagrined. "I had hoped everyone would have gone to bed by now."

"Whatever's happened to you, Mr. Carson?" she asked, approaching him. "You're covered in mud!"

"I went for a walk," he replied.

"Into the lake?"

Mr. Carson didn't think he could be any more humiliated than he was already, so he tried to make a joke of it. "I suppose you could say I got into a fight with a rickety dock."

Mrs. Hughes chuckled. "I can see the dock emerged victorious."

"I'm afraid so."

"Let me help you with that," she offered, taking his wet tailcoat, which revealed a badly torn shirtsleeve. "Mr. Carson, you're bleeding!"

"No, am I? I knew I'd hurt myself, but…"

She took him by the wrist and turned his hand over. "Oh my God." The palm of his left hand was full of splinters - at least fifty, maybe even a hundred. "Your hand is so cold, Mr. Carson. How long have you been outside all wet like this?"

"About an hour," he admitted. "I didn't want anyone to see me like this."

"It's January, Mr. Carson! You'll catch your death hanging about the yard in a wet suit! What good will your dignity do you then?"

"Mrs. Hughes, I-"

"No, I won't listen to any excuses. Go upstairs and get in the bath right now before you turn blue. Then once you're clean and dry, come back down here and I'll take care of those splinters."

He nodded and reached for his tailcoat.

"Never mind the coat!" she admonished him, keeping it out of his reach. "Go!"

Mr. Carson sighed, giving up on any argument, and headed for the stairs.

Mrs. Hughes took the tailcoat into her sitting room and looked at it under the light. It would take some work on the part of the laundry maids to put it right again, but it wasn't ruined. Her task would be to come up with a story for the maids that would explain the state of the coat without embarrassing poor Mr. Carson. She could tell them that it had fallen in the mud, as though that weren't obvious, but she needn't mention the fact that he was wearing it at the time. Mrs. Hughes would take the blame for it herself if need be, but she would need to think of a reason why she herself would be carrying Mr. Carson's tailcoat around near mud puddles. Well, that would have to be tomorrow's problem. Tonight she anticipated spending at least half an hour pulling splinters out of Mr. Carson's hand. She took out her first aid kit and readied her tweezers and a few other supplies.

A short time later, Mr. Carson came down the corridor looking much more comfortable in his pajamas, dressing gown, and slippers than he had in wet livery, but still protecting his injured hand. Mrs. Hughes ushered him into her sitting room where she had placed two chairs facing one another. He sat in one of the chairs and held his hand out to her hesitatingly.

"Give me the other hand, Mr. Carson," she ordered.

"But there aren't any splinters in the other one."

"Do as I say, please." He reached out and she put a glass in his hand. "Scotch whisky. I think you'll need it."

Mr. Carson nodded. "You may be right."

Mrs. Hughes took her place in the chair facing his and took his injured hand very carefully. She moved a little forward in her chair and placed his hand on her knee, palm up, so she could get to work. One at a time, she plucked the tiny wood shavings from Mr. Carson's hand. At first she worked mechanically, almost unconsciously, but after a little while she became aware of how much pain he was suffering. He was sitting very still with his eyes closed, trying to breathe very slowly, but he still winced almost every time she tugged a splinter from his skin.

"What were you doing outside in the first place?" she asked, hoping to distract him from the pain. "Going for a walk, you say, but why at this hour?"

"Just to clear my head," he answered. "It was a busy day, and not in a good way."

"Yes, I heard that Mrs. Crawley and the dowager were at each other's throats over dinner," Mrs. Hughes agreed.

"Quite. And Thomas is still bullying William. I was afraid I might have to break up a fist fight in the servants' hall."

"Poor William," she said softly. "He's still terribly homesick at times."

"Yes."

Mrs. Hughes glanced up briefly and found Mr. Carson studying her face intently. She blushed and returned to her work. "I'm so sorry about your hand, Mr. Carson."

"Why? It wasn't _your_ fault."

She looked up into his face again. "Because I care about what happens to you. It wasn't my fault, but I'm still sorry to see you in pain."

He seemed very affected by her words. "Thank you, Mrs. Hughes," Mr. Carson replied. "I'm lucky I've got you to take care of me."

She smiled, looking back at his hand and continuing to pluck. Mr. Carson took a large swig of his drink, then inhaled and exhaled deeply, trying to think of something besides his hand, which felt like it was on fire. "You smell like vanilla," he mused.

Mrs. Hughes blushed deeply and kept her eyes on his hand. "It's just the soap I use to wash my hair." In spite of her surprise and discomfiture at Mr. Carson's comment, her nimble fingers continued their steady work. She could feel the warmth of his hand through the layers of clothing that covered her knee. She tried to conceal the unsteadiness of her breathing; his nearness was affecting her more than she would have expected.

"There," she said at last, putting down the tweezers and taking up a little bottle and some cotton wool. "Now I'm going to clean it. This will hurt. I suggest another swig of that whisky."

Mr. Carson followed her suggestion, finishing his glass, but he was still shocked into speech by the sharp pain. "Bloody hell!" he swore, then immediately apologized. "Please excuse my coarse language, Mrs. Hughes."

"Certainly," she replied. "I think I'd say that and worse if this were _my_ hand. I don't think it will be good for much tomorrow." She wrapped a bandage around his hand as gently as she could and tied it up. "Come see me in the morning so I can make sure it's getting better."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hughes," Mr. Carson said. "I'm glad you were still awake when I came in, even if it meant your seeing me in such a state of dishevelment."

Mrs. Hughes laughed. "Don't worry, I won't give you away. Now get to bed and under your blankets," she admonished him. "I don't want you catching cold and leaving all of your work to me!"

He smiled at her good-natured scolding. "Very well. Good night."

"Good night." Mrs. Hughes watched him make his way to the stairs and then closed and locked her sitting room and made her way up to her own bedroom.

#####

The next morning before breakfast, Mr. Carson obediently appeared at the door of Mrs. Hughes's sitting room. When she invited him in, he entered and closed the door behind him.

"Still hiding your humanity behind that dignity, I see," Mrs. Hughes teased, approaching him. Mr. Carson said nothing, only holding out his hand. She very gently untied the bandage and peered down at his hand, her head bending over it to get a close look. "It looks much better today." She felt his breath on her neck; she gave a start and looked up at him suddenly with a question in her eyes. His face was inches from hers. He leaned down a little further and she stepped closer to him. She closed her eyes and-

"Mrs. Hughes!" Mrs. Patmore burst into the room and the butler and housekeeper sprang apart.

"Yes, Mrs. Patmore? How can I help?" Mrs. Hughes answered, more calmly than she felt.

Mrs. Patmore looked suspiciously from Mrs. Hughes to Mr. Carson and back again, but she did not question them. "You _could_ help by giving me my own key to the store cupboard, but since I know you won't be doing that anytime soon, just come and let me in."

"I'll be along in a minute," Mrs. Hughes replied. "I just need to put this bandage back on Mr. Carson's hand."

Mrs. Patmore gave the pair a shrewd look. "You do that, Mrs. Hughes." And she turned and walked away.

Mrs. Hughes turned back to Mr. Carson and worked silently and efficiently to replace the bandage she had undone. "Take care of that hand," she said quietly before leaving him alone in her sitting room. She went to the store cupboard, where she found Mrs. Patmore waiting, much more patiently than usual.

"What was that about, Mrs. Hughes?" she asked in a whisper as the housekeeper approached the cupboard door.

"I don't know," she murmured, turning the key in the lock.

"What do you mean you don't know?" Mrs. Patmore wanted to know. "He was about to kiss you!"

"Maybe," Mrs. Hughes answered noncommittally.

"Ha!" scoffed Mrs. Patmore. "No maybe about it! I have to say if a man looked at me that way-"

"I won't listen to this," Mrs. Hughes retorted, hurrying away before the cook could respond. She was relieved to find that Mr. Carson had vacated her sitting room while she was with Mrs. Patmore. She closed and locked the door before sitting down at her desk. Mrs. Hughes felt completely off balance as she asked herself the same question Mrs. Patmore had. _What _was_ that all about?_

#####

Mrs. Hughes couldn't bring herself to look Mr. Carson in the eye for the rest of the day. At meals, she avoided his glance, paying a great deal of attention to her food, or to the conversation going on at the other end of the table. She was disconcerted all day, whether he was present or not, but especially when he was near. She felt warm and her skin prickled with anticipation, but of what? Mrs. Hughes did not know. Mr. Carson was frustrated by her behavior, but he thought he could understand it. She was uncertain how to act in light of what had happened this morning. He had seen the surprise in her lovely eyes when she raised her head to look at him this morning. He had also noted that she stepped closer to him when he lowered his head to kiss her, and that she closed her eyes just before Mrs. Patmore interrupted them. She was startled by his advance, but not unwilling. Mr. Carson knew they would have to speak of it, and soon, or their professional relationship would surely suffer. He had planned what he would say to her that evening. He was sorry that she would not look at him, but he could not say what he wanted to say until they were alone. He only hoped that she would not slip off to bed before he got a chance to speak with her.

#####

Mrs. Hughes forced herself to go to him that evening. She had avoided his gaze all day, but she was no coward, and she could not simply pretend that nothing had happened. When the others had gone to bed, she took a tray of tea to Mr. Carson's pantry. He looked up at her knock, and their eyes met for the first time since before breakfast.

"Tea, Mr. Carson?" Mrs. Hughes asked, trying to sound just as she did on any other Tuesday night at his pantry door. She managed a smile, but she could not hold his gaze for long and busied herself with the tea things.

"Certainly, Mrs. Hughes," he answered, watching her carefully. He got up from his desk and sat in his usual chair, taking the cup she handed to him. They sipped quietly for a little while before he spoke. "I've been thinking... about what happened this morning."

"Or what _almost_ happened," she corrected him, looking into her cup.

"Well, yes, what almost happened." He paused, watching her avoid his eyes. He spoke to her again, hoping his tone was gentle and not exasperated. "Mrs. Hughes, will you not look at me?"

She swallowed hard and took a deep breath before raising her head to meet his eyes once more.

Mr. Carson smiled. "That's better."

"What is it you were thinking, about what almost happened?" she asked.

"I was thinking how glad I was that Mrs. Patmore interrupted."

She frowned. "What do you mean?" It was only now that he seemed to be regretting his actions that Mrs. Hughes realized just how much _she_ regretted Mrs. Patmore's interruption.

"Not what you think," Mr. Carson assured her, realizing at once how he had blundered. He laughed. "I've spent most of the day practicing for this conversation and I'm still bungling it."

Mrs. Hughes's frown softened and she smiled very slightly. "I can be patient, Mr. Carson. Keep trying and I'm certain you'll manage to say what you mean."

He nodded, then began again. "This morning, in your sitting room, I nearly kissed you," he said quietly.

Mrs. Hughes now found that she couldn't keep her eyes off Mr. Carson. She tried not to blink, and she barely breathed.

"I said I was glad for Mrs. Patmore's interruption, but it isn't because I am sorry for what almost happened."

"I don't understand." Mrs. Hughes frowned in confusion.

"Your eyes are so lovely and you smell so sweet, and you touched my hand so delicately. I was under a spell and forgot where I was and who we were."

Mrs. Hughes began to breathe normally again. She knew what he would say: that he had wanted to kiss her, but he knew it wasn't right, wasn't proper. There was some consolation in knowing he wanted to, but also great disappointment. She kept watching him, though. She would let him say it himself.

"There is a proper order of things, Mrs. Hughes, and a man should not try to kiss a woman if he has not told her what his intentions are, or declared himself in some way. Mrs. Patmore kept me from kissing you before I had told you that I love you."

Mrs. Hughes gasped, but unfortunately had just taken a sip of tea and began coughing uncontrollably. She couldn't speak, but she wasn't sure what she would have said if she had been able to.

"Oh dear, can I get you a glass of water, Mrs. Hughes?"

She shook her head; her eyes watered, but her coughing began to subside.

"You're surprised, of course. We needn't speak of it again if you had rather not. After this morning I would not blame you for doubting my word, but I do promise to be a gentleman from now on. I don't wish to make you uncomfortable. I hope we can still be friends."

Mrs. Hughes shook her head again. She was frustrated by her continued inability to speak properly. She rose from her chair and began to pace about the room. After clearing her throat several times, she croaked out a few words before losing her voice again. "I was sorry-"

His eyebrows drew together as he tried to understand her. He was also concerned for her health. "Can't I get you a glass of water?" he asked, rising from his seat. "Are you sure you're going to be all right?"

Mrs. Hughes pressed her lips together and looked about the room in search of something that might help her communicate without speaking. At last her eyes fell on Mr. Carson's injured hand, and she pointed to it, indicating that he should hold it out for her inspection. When he did so, she took it and began to unwind the bandage. When the wound was uncovered, she cradled his hand in both of hers and looked closely at it. Then, as he watched, perplexed, she bent and placed a feather-light kiss on his palm.

It was now Mr. Carson's turn to be surprised, and Mrs. Hughes could not help smiling at his befuddled expression when she raised her head and looked into his eyes. His confusion turned to delight at her expression and he smiled back at her. "You _were_ surprised, I take it?" he asked.

Mrs. Hughes nodded.

"But not upset?"

She shook her head.

"Perhaps you are sorry that Mrs. Patmore came in when she did?"

She blushed and hesitated before nodding her head.

"Mrs. Patmore's gone to bed."

Mrs. Hughes nodded.

Mr. Carson stepped closer to her. "May I…?"

She nodded and took another step toward him. They were very close now and this time no one burst through the door as he bent his head down to hers and she closed her eyes. His lips were very gentle and she felt warm from head to toe. Her eyes fluttered open when he pulled away from her. She cleared her throat again and tried to speak, this time with more success than before. "When is it right and proper for a woman to kiss a man?" she asked in a hoarse voice, her eyes twinkling. "Must she make some declaration or other?"

Mr. Carson returned her twinkling smile. "A woman may do as she pleases."

"I wish you were in your morning suit," Mrs. Hughes mused.

Mr. Carson was bewildered once again. "What?"

"Then I could tug at your necktie to make you bend down and kiss me again."

"All you ever need to do is ask," he murmured, kissing her firmly. Mrs. Hughes slid her arms up around his neck and pulled him closer. He held her tight around the waist with his uninjured arm. "The lapels of my coat might work just as well as my necktie, though," he told her between kisses.

"I love you," she whispered in Mr. Carson's ear as he began to kiss her neck.

"You don't have to say it just because I did."

"No, I have to say it because it's true."

Mr. Carson pulled away a little so he could look at her face and then began pressing tiny kisses all over her face. "I love you, my darling," he told her. "And not because you have lovely eyes and you smell sweet."

"Why, then?" she asked.

"I don't know," he answered. "I love you because I love you."

Mrs. Hughes sighed happily and took hold of the lapels of Mr. Carson's coat.

_The end._

**Please review if you have a moment.**


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